The Dragon Prince
by KatTheElf
Summary: Everyone knows Draco Malfoy as the sole heir to a high-ranking pureblood family, but they would be surprised by what they don't know. Fem!Draco
1. Prologue

The Dragon Prince

Prologue

As far as anyone in the wizarding world ever knew, no daughters had been sired by a Malfoy since before the Battle of Hastings. The Malfoy family, being just as esteemed as it was old, had maintained quite an accurate record of their own history. Few shadowed spaces existed on the family tree. However, it was quite strange that, in all the centuries that the Malfoy family had resided in Great Britain, not one single leaf had ever belonged to a daughter.

Sons of the Malfoy line were raised to believe they were a sign from God—omens of the family's purity and goodness. Proof that the name deserved to be. This increased pride in the young of the Malfoy line and was believed to be the cause of devotion and obedience in sons. It not only ensured that the family name would live on but also ensured the strong bond between generations, therefore maintaining the virtuous traditions of ages long gone.

This, of course, was all a ruse, as any Malfoy who had sired a child could tell. Whilst their wife was with child, they would learn the most heinous truth. If their wife were to give birth to a female, all parties who had borne witness would have their memories erased, the child would be orphaned, and the man would have to choose another as his bride. The names of any daughters were to be omitted from the family tree, as were the names of any ex-wives, whose existence may further mar the noble House of Malfoy. Any who failed to follow these rules would, by their own father, be cursed and exiled. The elder patriarch would then bring forth another child with his wife if she were capable of conceiving, or keep a courtesan to bear the next heir of the Malfoy line.

This, of course, never happened, as only the most obedient sons were born to the House of Malfoy. And honour to the family name was held above all else.

That is, until one son, bound in matrimony without a pre-arranged contract, chose love over his filial honour.


	2. Chapter I: It Cannot Be

Chapter I: It Cannot Be . . .

"WHAT?" This was Lucius Malfoy's response to the nurse's announcement.

"Please, Mr. Malfoy, do try to stay calm . . ." she pleaded, utterly dumbfounded, trailing closely behind as the enraged man sped past another nurse and charged through the heavy chamber doors.

Within, he saw Narcissa sitting up in the bed, a tiny bundle held close to her bosom. Lucius furrowed his brow and, taking in an energizing breath, stomped over to the bedside.

"Lucius," Narcissa beamed weakly at her husband. "Meet your new—LUCIUS!"

Narcissa's ears pounded in terror as her husband ripped the nursing bundle from her arms. A piercing wail filled the room as Lucius rocked the bundle, attempting to calm the aggravated infant within.

It did not take long for the child to calm in its father's arms, and though his blood boiled in his veins, Lucius could not help how the child's beauty had stricken him. The baby's eyes were a soft grey, while the hair curled in tufts like tiny gilded clouds. He may have even beamed proudly for a moment, as there was no doubt the child was his. Still, there was one thing he needed to know.

With one final sigh to calm himself, Lucius carefully unfolded the bottom of the blanket. When he saw what was beneath, he hastily forced the child back into its mother's arms.

"Lucius," Narcissa's concerned voice broke, "what is it?"

Lucius removed his hand from his brow and stared at his wife with a pained expression that also suggested he knew not what to say. Though Lucius had been one to throw tantrums at intervals, Narcissa struggled to remember a time when her husband had been quite so upset as he appeared just then.

"Lucius—"

"Narcissa," he finally replied, turning away.

"Yes, Love?"

"Are you happy here?"

"Yes, of course I'm happy here, but—"

"And do you love me?"

This is when he turned back to face Narcissa. And Narcissa nearly gasped. Though she had seen her husband angry before, she had never seen his face like this—his eyes grey storms of blustery torment.

"How could you even ask that, Lucius?" Narcissa shook her head. "Of course, I love you!"

Lucius padded over, sat by his wife and marveled as the nursing infant curled its tiny fingers around his own. Narcissa reached forward to gently brush the tears from her husband's cheeks. With his free hand, Lucius pulled Narcissa's to his quivering lips.

"I know, Narcissa. I know. And I want to keep you and our child—"

"Lucius, you're scaring me. What is it?"

Lucius straightened his expression as a sudden seriousness took over his eyes. He looked once more to his suckling child before returning his gaze to her mother.

"Then everyone we know must be made to believe that our heir . . . is male."

* * *

 **AN: Just to be clear, Draco Malfoy is my favourite character, and I prefer him as a male character. However, I do have a weakness for genderbending, just out of curiosity to find how different characters would be as the opposite gender. Also, I do not normally ship Drarry. I actually like the cannon pairing of Draco and Astoria, as well as the near-cannon pairing of Harry and Hermione. However, this story may include a little bit of Drarry. Idk. We'll see where this takes me. :)**


	3. Chapter II: The Boy Who Wasn't

Chapter II: The Boy Who Wasn't

5 June 1980—the day Narcissa gave birth to her and Lucius' only child. The nurses and the midwife were obliviated. Thereafter, the task of keeping the child's true gender a secret from Abraxas Malfoy was a tedious one. One wrong move and the poor girl would have been sent away, as would both Narcissa and Lucius.

To make matters easier, Lucius and Narcissa decided to bestow their daughter with a masculine name.

"I like the name, Draco," Narcissa decided. "It has an ethereal quality about it. Besides, it is within keeping of the Black family tradition of naming children after constellations."

Lucius concurred, "And then we could give her my name as her middle name—Malfoy family tradition."

And so, the little girl was named Draco Lucius Malfoy. And it was not long before she became her parents' "Little Dragon".

She was curious about everything, especially all the artifacts in the annex of the mansion's library. While Lucius took pride in his daughter's early eye for finer things, he decided it would be best for the most dangerous of the items to be stored away in the basement vaults. This action was prompted after finding his father carelessly encouraging Draco to wield the Muramasa sword, which had until that time hung harmlessly from the stone wall.

"Whoa!" Draco exclaimed in awe, unsheathing the cumbersome blade, far too heavy for her tiny body to raise without propping it on the floor for support. "It's so shiny."

"And it's sharp, too," Abraxas agreed. "This sword was the cause of many a great warrior's fall back in its homeland."

Draco beamed at her grandfather, absolutely enamored by his knowledge. She was about to ask how old the sword was when Lucius, who had been doing some of his own research in the library, paused at the doorway of the annex.

"Draco!" he cried in panic, stomping between his father and daughter before claiming the sword from her tiny, perplexed fingers. "What are you doing? The sword is dangerous! I thought I told you not to take anything off the wall."

"I'm sorry, Father," Draco muttered at the floor, bowing her blonde head in shame. "I won't do it again."

"Let's see that you don't," Lucius scolded. "And look up at me when I'm speaking to you. It's very rude to avoid eye contact."

"Yes, Father!" Draco nervously whimpered, her pupils dilating as her father nudged her face upward with his thumb.

He maintained his force on her chin for a few more seconds until he was certain he had gotten his message across.

"Now go find your mother," he gently ordered.

"Yes, Sir," Draco obeyed, scrambling forth through the stuffy library.

"Lucius."

"Yes, Father," Lucius replied, turning to Abraxas.

Down pointed nose and over mustache, the more distinguished man reproachfully eyed his progeny.

"Why do you coddle that boy so?"

Lucius' heart froze. He had never considered his treatment of his daughter as "coddling", but his mind whizzed back through time at his father's words, and he realized just how protective he had been towards his tiny treasure. A pang of guilt rippled through the recesses of his mind when he wondered if he would have guarded a son in quite the same manner. Would he have been the one to hand the child the sword and say "have fun"? Maybe so. Maybe not. And, what's more, would he have loved the child as much? Now, the thought made him smile with self-assuredness. Of course, he would have. The child was of his and Narcissa's own flesh and blood, and Narcissa was the reason for everything.

"Lucius," Abraxas grumbled, harshly thumping his cane on the floor, "if you want to keep the boy safe, then you have to let him face some dangers every so often. If you don't, then he'll never learn. That's how I raised you, and you're still here."

Lucius Nodded, dodging the cane waving in his face.

"Yes, Father. But the Muramasa sword is very valuable . . . far too valuable for a six-year-old to be handling. Besides, it is cursed. While seasoned wizards, such as ourselves, find it easy to stave off the curse's effects, a mere child whose magic has yet to fully awaken may not—"

"Oh, come, Lucius! The boy can't even lift the weapon off the ground. Furthermore, I wasn't about to leave him alone with it. Just a few seconds with a cursed object isn't long enough to harm anyone—save filthy muggle scum."

Meanwhile, Draco wandered upstairs, searching for her mother. She had already checked the parlour, the dining room, the kitchen, the study, and even the billiards room but to no avail.

Draco clung closely to the wrought iron rails until she managed the top of the cascading staircase. Once reaching the landing, she made her way down a broad corridor. As she progressed, the flambeaux adorning the walls flickered to life. Finally, she reached the end of the passageway, where only the dark wood door of her parents' chamber loomed. She stretched a tiny fist towards the door and knocked with as much force as she could muster.

She waited.

Knocked again.

Waited.

When not a voice, nor a soul, answered, Draco slowly turned the doorknob and pressed the door open, carefully lest the hinges creak from haste. She held her breath, eyes focused wide in determination as she made her effort. Once inside the room, she dared not to release the knob until the door was back in its closed position and the latch bolt had no more than ticked back into place.

Draco sighed, taking a moment to release her body from its self-enforced tension before scanning the master bedroom with her eyes. After the library annex, this was Draco's favourite place in the entire mansion.

Excitedly, she charged for the bed, flinging herself between the canopy, posts, and footboard like a football through a goal. The fragrance of the sheets embedded itself into her nostrils before she flipped herself over on the king-size mattress. Around her ears, she could feel the caress of the cool breeze reaching in through the nearby windows like tiny pixie fingers. She cocked her head without raising it from the silky comforter and was mesmerized by the shimmer of the silvery curtains, billowing like waves of starlight at the peak of day. Draco closed her eyes, honing even further in on the scent of her surroundings. It was a familiar scent—a comforting one. Whatever the source, Draco decided that the fragrance was of love, happiness, and safety.

Draco opened her eyes to watch the canopy rippling overhead. As the light ebbed in and out with the breeze, she traced the silvery patterns on the green fabric with her eyes. She could never quite make out what the designs were supposed to be. Were they clouds? Were they flowers? Were they runes? For all she knew, they could have been random doodles. Utterly meaningless. Nevertheless, they always seemed to claim her attention, and she chased them down, down, down . . . and then the door entered her vision.

It was not the door she had walked through upon entering the room. This door had something else behind it—something that Draco had been told not to play with. Even at such a young age, she felt as though her interest was wrong, and she was forced to shove aside her shame as she—once again—ushered herself through the door to her mother's closet.

Narcissa Malfoy was known for her poise, beauty, and glamour, and for a very good reason. She made certain to try out the newest trends before anybody else. She employed the potions necessary to keep her skin glowing and her hair like silk. To top it off, she had a collection of jewelry sure to incite envy in any witch she encountered. Though Draco wasn't quite old enough to understand all of this, part of her admiration for her mother was derived from her pride in her appearance, as well as her ability to maintain it.

Draco was awestruck as she took in the colours and patterns of the fabrics hanging all about her. She spun around, fascinated by the way everything seemed to blend together. Though Narcissa did keep some robes and gowns of lighter hues, Draco always found herself drawn towards darker palettes.

One particular set of robes she had not seen on her previous excursions into the depths of her mother's wardrobe was of black velvet with dark purple pinstripes at the hems. Draco's eyes widened as she ran her fingers over the smooth fabric. It was one of the most fascinating things she had ever seen or felt. So like rabbit fur, but with the appearance of something a queen would wear. She suddenly wished that she could have all of her clothing made out of the very same material. That's when her heart stopped and a most devilish idea crossed her mind.

Without missing a beat, Draco pulled and shook and tugged, though careful not to rip the beautiful fabric. She pivoted this way and that, the robes swaying in her grip until they finally dropped from the hanger. Gleefully, she stuck one arm in one hole and began with the other when . . .

"DRACO!"

Swiftly, the child discarded the robes onto the floor behind her, though knowing that she had already been seen.

Standing over her, Narcissa frowned, hands posed seriously on her hips.

"How many times have I told you not to play in Mummy's closet?"

Draco eyed the floor, squirming nervously.

"I don't know . . . But why can't I just look at your robes?"

Narcissa bit her lip, not knowing how to answer. She wished that she could just be straightforward and tell Draco everything, but the poor child would not understand. She was so young and innocent.

"Mother?"

"Yes, Sweetie," Narcissa replied, glad to have a break from her thoughts.

"Can I have a set of robes made out of this?" Draco inquired, lifting the robes as close to her mother's grasp as possible.

Narcissa smiled, examining the fabric of the robes her daughter had just presented her.

"I don't see why not," she returned, gently patting her child on the scalp.

* * *

Later that evening, Narcissa and Lucius gave each other a peck on the cheek upon climbing into bed.

"Did you find out anything, regarding, you know . . ." Narcissa trailed.

"Hmm? Oh, that . . . Not so far."

"Well, I know that you'll figure out something soon . . . By the way, Draco somehow found her way into my closet again."

Lucius said nothing.

"Well?"

Lucius searched his wife's expression, trying to figure out what she wanted him to say.

"Lucius," Narcissa finally continued, "are you sure we're doing the right thing. I mean, is it really fair to make a child—our child—go through such a thing?"

Lucius pulled his wife close, rubbing her shoulder as she laid her head on his chest. He took a deep breath, perfectly understanding his wife's pain.

"Well, I don't think so, but then consider the alternative. I think Draco will appreciate it later on in life. At least she will have had a family."

"I know," Narcissa agreed, "but Draco doesn't even know that she is a girl."

She pulled away from her husband, just so that she could look him in the eyes, which was rather uncomfortable at the given moment.

"Well—"Lucius stammered, "she doesn't really understand the difference between girls and boys yet."

Narcissa raised a finger.

"She doesn't understand the physical difference between girls and boys, but I believe she does understand the difference in expectations."

Lucius nodded, though still confused.

"Yes, so what is your point?"

Narcissa sighed.

"We are expecting her to behave like a boy, though she is really a girl. However, she doesn't even know she is a girl . . . It seems rather cruel, doesn't it?"

Lucius nodded, understanding what his wife was saying.

"Draco is still too young to be trusted with such an important secret. When the right time comes, we'll tell her."

"Yes, but what am I supposed to tell her in the meantime?" Narcissa pleaded. "I mean, when she plays in my closet, I cannot tell her the reason she shouldn't is because she is a boy . . . that would be a lie. Then again, if she—"

"Just tell her that it's not nice to play with your clothes because they might get wrinkled—It is as simple as that."

"Lucius, it's only natural for little girls to be interested in clothing, but if she finds the behavior to be acceptable, then she might do something of the sort in front of your father, and you know how he is—"

"How is he?" Lucius demanded.

"He wouldn't necessarily assume Draco to be a girl, but he would scold Draco for it anyway . . . Oh, Lucius, it may seem silly, but I don't want her self-esteem to be crushed unnecessarily—especially when we're not being completely honest with her."

Lucius thought for a moment. His wife had raised an important issue. He smiled, leaned in, and granted his wife another kiss on the cheek.

"I think the answer lies in finding Draco another interest—one that would be respectable for any young wizard . . . or witch, for that matter."


	4. Chapter III: First Flight

Chapter III: First Flight

Dobby the House Elf focused his large, orb-like eyes on his youngest mistress as the day's early light rose from her sleeping countenance.

 _So innocent,_ he thought. _Like a completely different person._

It was true, the little fair-haired child appeared so soft and carefree as she lay unconscious beneath the covers of her full-size canopy bed. Dobby wished that she could remain that way, and he deeply dreaded what he then had to do.

"Young Master," Dobby began softly.

"Young Master," he pressed with a bit more force.

The child did not stir.

"Young Master," louder. "Young Master."

Draco stirred, but only to whimper and roll to her other side.

Dobby sighed.

"YOUNG MASTER!"

The elf's squeaky voice peaked like the whistle of a tea kettle as the child's eyelids begrudgingly parted, and her chubby face swole with vengeance. Dobby immediately shielded his head—a reflex born from daily habit. He slightly winced as the object met his twig-like forearms with a smack.

He exhaled, slowly lowering his arms. Thankfully, it had only been a pillow that time. On more severe occasions, Dobby had been assailed by bedside lamps, glasses of water, toy broomsticks, and books—incidents that had only added lumps to his already misshapen head.

"Young Master," Dobby piped, picking up the pillow that had been tossed his way and giving it a quick fluffing, "your mother has requested that you have your bath, are dressed, and meet your family in the parlour."

"What about breakfast?" the child voiced through a yawn as she stretched her arms towards the ceiling.

"Your parents have requested that you come down for breakfast this morning. They have a special surprise for you."

Dobby helped the sleepy-eyed girl down from her mattress. As the child headed through the door of the bathroom, Dobby sent the pillow in his hands through the air and back to its rightful place on the bed. He then clicked his fingers to pull up the flat sheet, then the afghan, and finally the quilt, before clicking once more to grant the pillows one final fluff.

Draco discarded her nightclothes into the laundry chute. Once undressed, she pittered up the few steps to the garden tub. Before descending into the water, she placed a single cautious toe upon its surface. Satisfied with the warmth of the bath, she stepped carefully down and took a seat on the edge of the step within, at which point, only her head could be seen over the clear, pearl-shaped bubbles.

The tub was more than sufficient for her tiny body. In fact, it was like a small swimming pool. Many times, she had dog-paddled across, though Dobby made sure to rush her out as quickly as he could, lest Narcissa become upset by the sight of her daughter's pruney fingers.

Dobby gently massaged shampoo into the child's scalp.

"Ow! Watch what you are doing! You've gotten soap in my eyes," Draco complained as the house elf poured a pitcher full of water over her head.

Dobby then gave the child a good polishing over with a wash cloth.

"Don't scrub so hard!" Draco protested as Dobby scrubbed her back with a brush.

Once out of the tub, the house elf wrapped Draco with a fresh, clean towel and gently dried her hair with another.

Once she was dried, Dobby allowed Draco to dress in the clothing that her mother had lain out for her: a brand-new set of velvety emerald green robes with S-shaped clasps that interlocked just beneath the chin—a rather serious set of clothing for a little one with such a pudgy face. Her hair would have to be fixed if there was to be any hope for completing the look.

Draco's hair was soft but thick for such a young child, and, when it got wet or the air was humid, her natural curls had a habit of frizzing their selves into an untamable mess. To some, Draco's natural curls may have been a cause for joy. To her parents, however, they were a major flaw that warranted correction. Therefore, every morning, her buttery-blonde locks would don gobs and gobs of hair gel prior to being teased back in a slick, streamlined fashion. Not a single strand was to be out of place—lest Dobby receive an iron to the knuckles or a spoon to the nose.

Dobby eyed Draco's reflection in the vanity mirror as he gave her one final comb at the back of the head. He was satisfied with his work, as, had he not known the child, he would have thought her a young lad. However, Dobby could not help but feel a slight pang of guilt as the thought crossed the space between his enormous, pointed ears.

It was true that Draco was not always kind to Dobby. She assailed him with inanimate objects, complained incessantly, threw tantrums when not given her way, and occasionally broke valuable items just to lay the blame on him. Yes, she could be quite an impossible child. Still, Dobby somehow found it difficult to resent her. In fact, he sometimes wondered if she could be considered just as much a prisoner as him.

"Come, Master Draco," Dobby beckoned. "Your family awaits."

Though it had happened many times, Dobby still found himself perplexed by the sensation of the tiny hand gently fumbling for his own. It traveled up his arm and flooded into his chest.

Despite his miserable life, Dobby could not help but smile as he clasped his fingers around those of his young mistress and led her out of the room.

* * *

Draco gazed in awe as brightly-robed athletes whizzed by on their brooms and jovial music greeted them to the field. The stadium was teeming with all manner of magical folk. One small child sporting a Chudley Cannons jersey greedily feasted on a great fluff of pastel candy floss as her mother led her on. Nearby, a group of half-naked young men coated in bright orange slurped butterbeer through straws trailing from bottles fastened to the sides of their heads. Also nearby, a woman leaned so far forward that she would have fallen out of the stands, had her friend not pulled her back from her demise.

"RAIBERT, I LOVE YOU!" she wailed through cupped hands as the seeker for the Montrose Magpies flew past.

Though witches and wizards from all walks of life were gathered together for this one event, most of them were not seated in a cushioned chair in a partitioned box with a table full of sweets and refreshments waiting behind them. This is one of the ways in which Draco learned that being a Malfoy had its perks.

Abraxas Malfoy grinned proudly as he watched his grandchild's face light up and took the seat next to her, a freshly-poured glass of red wine in hand. From where they were sitting, they were right on level with the players. It was not too difficult for Draco to imagine herself as a part of the action.

Abraxas took a sip of his wine and rested the glass on his knee.

"You see the ones in orange, Draco?" he asked.

"Yes, Grandfather," the child replied, turning from the object of her amusement.

"Those are the losers. Never cheer for them. Only those in denial cheer for that sort. They are not going to win this match."

"Yes, Sir." Draco nodded, though she could not help but ask, "But how do you know?"

Abraxas chuckled, patting her gently on the head, "I know everything, Draco. I've been around for a long time."

"Ladies and gentlemen," a heavy male voice boomed over the speaker. "today's match between the Montrose Magpies and the Chudley Cannons is about to begin."

The crowd exclaimed an anticipatory cheer.

"However, before we begin, I have a quick announcement: Today is Montrose Magpie Chaser, Octavius McFadden's twenty-second birthday. Good luck on your birthday, Octavius!"

"No one gives a flying crap about his birthday! Let's get on with the bloody game!" shouted one of the young men who was painted orange.

"Yeah!" chimed in another. "We didn't come to hear about ol' Faddy's stupid birthday. We came here to see the Cannons whoop some Magpie arse!"

"Athletes, into position," came the announcement as the players swooped into their allotted places.

They hovered, lunging forward on their brooms, faces marked with fierce expressions. They were still, but only because they were bottling that energy that would soon burst forth. That same energy that would soon lead one team to their glory.

The referee, also hovering on broomstick, shot some words at the players, but Draco could not hear what he was saying. The next fully discernible sound she heard was the squeal of the whistle. Immediately, just as the sound reached her ears, she became the spectator of another marvel as the men and women on broomstick blazed gracefully and swiftly through the sky.

It was a feast for the eyes, and match-after-match, Draco hungered for it more and more, and it was not long before she decided that it was not enough to watch quidditch. She wanted more. She wanted the rush of adrenaline running through her veins. She wanted the excitement. She longed to understand the inner-workings of each team—how each member seemed to play their own part in a larger system, much like a cog in a well-oiled machine. Perhaps, most of all, she wanted to know what it felt like to win.

* * *

Late one night, after a long day at the stadium, Draco lie staring up at the ceiling, reflections of stars cascading between her bedroom walls. She could not sleep. As she listened to the roar of the crowd still playing in her head, she could only imagine what it felt like to be completely weightless, to have the wind whipping through her hair and her eyes filled with the sun. To be one with the chase. The action. The victory! And she was not going to find out for herself by staying on the ground.

So, she padded across the floor, from her bed, and to her wardrobe, to scavenge for a pair of shoes. Though she had footwear a-plenty, she only had one pair of tennis shoes. They were a tad too small and hardly worn, but they would suit her purpose. She slipped them on without a pair of socks and took her time in wandering down the hall, down the stairs, her toes pinched all the while. She didn't care. And her discovery of her father's broom in the entrance hall closet before escaping through the front door verified her reason for not caring.

Broom in hand, she traced a path across the front courtyard, around the back, and to the open field that separated the family cemetery from the vineyards. From atop of a hill, she looked down on all the land that would someday belong to her: the mansion; the courtyards, gardens, gazebos, and fountains; the orchards and ponds; the vineyards and winery. All hers. As far as the eye could see.

For want of a different perspective, she mounted her father's broom. From there, she didn't know exactly what to do. All she could do was try something and try something different when that something didn't work.

First, she closed her eyes to imagine herself flying. She kicked off the ground and . . . immediately came back down. She stood up, befuddled, rubbing herself on the behind. She tried again, this time starting with a run. Again, she crashed to the ground, but with scrapes and bruises from a skid and tumble down the hill.

She gazed up at the hill behind her, amazed by just how far she had fallen. She stood, staring intently at the broomstick in her hand. What was she doing wrong? Why couldn't she fly? It couldn't be because she had no magic. She tried to think of what she was missing, but her parents rarely flew and she had a difficult time remembering the actions they took when they did. She never stopped to think of it before. They made everything seem so easy.

"Stupid broom!" she griped, frustrated, flinging the item to the ground.

She turned, ready to walk away from it. From her dream. That's when she heard something. Slowly, she turned back to find the broom floating in the air, not much more than a foot off the ground.

She cocked her head at the unlikely spectacle as she approached. It was waiting for her. No one else. And so, she got on.

Immediately, the broom took off high into the air. At first, she found it difficult to maintain her grip as it moved this way and that. Cutting closely to the tree tops. Up over the roof of the mansion. She caught her reflection in the water of the fountain. There was no doubt about it. She was finally flying.

It was a fearsome feat, but, suddenly, she felt a little braver. She grinned, sitting up a little straighter. She leaned to the right to make a right turn. She leaned to the left to make a left turn. She leaned forward to speed up. She leaned backwards to slow down. She was getting the hang of it when, once again, flight fell out of her control. The broom was descending, and she could not stop it. She panicked and somehow ended up hanging off the broomstick by one hand. She screamed, unable to hold on any longer. Like a shot, she fell out of the sky, certain this was the end, and then . . .

"Father!" she cried, grateful to have landed in his arms.

"Draco, your mother and I were so worried when we went to your room to check on you and you weren't there."

Lucius held her tightly, his fear from having seen his daughter slipping from the broom he had been trying desperately to control finally subsiding.

* * *

"Did you see me fly, Father?" Draco asked as Lucius tucked her back into bed.

"Yes, I did," Lucius assured her. "But you shouldn't fly without your mother or me there with you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. We'll talk more about this in the morning."

* * *

Lucius entered his bedroom to find Narcissa standing at the doorway in her ivory night set, which made her fair features glow even more.

"Did you find her?" she asked, worry still in her eyes.

"I certainly did," Lucius replied, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "And you should have seen it. Our little dragon was flying."


	5. Chapter IV: The Truth

Chapter IV: The Truth

The Malfoys were very selective about the sort of friends they kept, and only allowed their most trusted friends to visit their home for any reason besides very special occasions. Therefore, Draco did not have many encounters with other children her age. In fact, the only two children she ever played with were Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, and Theodore Nott. And if her parents had really thought it through, they may not have even allowed for that.

"It is hot today," Theodore whined, fanning himself.

"Yeah!" Goyle agreed, staring at Draco with distaste.

"What do you expect me to do about it? I don't control the weather," she retorted.

The four children were sitting beneath the gazebo in the rear courtyard, amidst the buzz of the bees and the midday sun as it blared through the drowsy air and splashed upon the white rose blossoms. Their shaded tabled was dressed with sweets and ice-cold pumpkin juice.

"True," Theodore nodded, "but I don't get why we can't go inside."

"Yeah!"

Most of the time, this seemed to be all that Goyle could say.

"It's because," Draco explained while chewing a fresh bite of pastry, "Father says he and the Dark Lord's followers are having an important meeting."

Theodore scrunched his nose.

"But the Dark Lord's dead."

"Yes," Draco retorted, suddenly sounding very impatient. "But Father says there may be some way to bring him back. He's been researching, and—"

"That's ridiculous," Theodore spat. "You can't bring back the dead!"

Draco leaned, zeroing in on her friend with narrowed eyes.

"Maybe _you_ can't! But my father can. He is the most powerful wizard there is."

Theodore snorted at Draco's arrogance. Draco narrowed her eyes until her top and bottom lashes forked one another.

"What's so funny?" she insisted. "You think there's someone more powerful than the Dark Lord's right hand? Well, spit it out!"

Nott shook his head.

"I don't know, but if your dad's so powerful, why hasn't he just killed all the mudbloods already? As far as I know, our world is still full of them."

Draco frowned. Not because she disagreed. In fact, she could think of nothing to effectively negate what Nott had said. Therefore, she did what she always did when she knew she could not win an argument—She changed the subject . . . but not so much that anyone would notice.

"I can't wait until I'm old enough to join them," Draco stated honestly.

Nott cocked his head.

"Wouldn't 'You Know Who' have to return before you could?"

Draco nodded. To her surprise, Theodore grinned.

"Me too," he said.

"Malfoy," Crabbe broke in, letting a spray of crumbs escape his engorged mouth, "It's so hot out here that I don't feel much like eating. Can't we go inside where it's cooler?"

Draco shook her head.

"I already told you, Crabbe. We can't go inside until the meeting is over."

"True," Nott agreed, "but isn't there a pond somewhere around here?

Draco cocked a fair brow.

"Yeah, but why would you want to go there?"

"To go swimming, of course!" Theodore shot with a mocking smack to his own head. "Why else?"

"B-b-but" Draco stammered.

"But what?"

She stared down at her feet, a hint of pink spreading from her pale cheeks to her ears.

"I can't swim."

Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle exchanged furrowed brows for a moment, utterly bewildered, before . . . before breaking into an uproarious fit of laughter.

Draco sat with her head still down, feeling her face—no, her entire head—become a congested pit of lava.

"IT'S NOT FUNNY!" she screamed, banging her fists so hard that a plateful of crumpets flipped off the side of the table and rolled, one-by-one, down the steps of the gazebo.

Crabbe held his aching stomach while Goyle struggled to force down his treacle fudge between guffaws, and Theodore wiped his eyes as he released his final chuckles.

"I'm sorry," Theodore wheezed, "but I just can't believe that Goyle," he motioned, "the tub of lard that he is—"

"Hey!" Goyle snapped.

"Would be less likely to sink than you," Nott finished.

Draco, still abashed by her own revelation, managed a faint smile at Nott's jibe.

"I never learned, okay?" she tried to sound angry. "But at least I know how to fly."

Nott blushed.

"I get it, Malfoy," he growled. "But I really want to go swimming now. If you take us to one of the ponds, I can teach you how. It's really easy."

* * *

Draco led the way from the courtyard and to the nearest pond, which happened to be just beyond the family cemetery. Once there, the children began removing their overclothes—well, at least Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott. Draco nervously fumbled with the buttons of her shirt. She knew people wore very little when swimming, but she hadn't publicly shown anything beyond her elbows or knees since she was an infant. By the time she finally removed her shirt, Crabbe was down to his shorts and making a leap for the pond, Goyle following shortly after. Nott was just about to sweep down his trousers.

Having noticed Draco's hesitation, he hollered her way.

"Hurry up, Malfoy! We don't have all bloody day!"

Draco, standing several feet away, turned in his direction, working to settle on a comeback when . . .

Nott, in removing his trousers, mistakenly brought down his shorts along with them, and he did not recognize nor rectify the problem until the hemline made it down past his knees. When he did, he simply pulled the cotton fabric back into place. No worries. No panic. There was no one to see him except three other boys. Still, he became rather disconcerted when he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, Draco gaping at him.

"What?" he asked, feeling his cheeks spike with a flush.

Draco hastily whipped away, feeling her own cheeks pinken—not having realized just how long she had been staring. Not knowing what it was she had been staring at.

"N-n-nothing!" she lied, gazing down at her own half-clothed body, suddenly feeling inadequate.

Having just turned nine, she had no problem baring the top part of her body. However, it was with extreme caution that she lowered her own trousers.

* * *

Later that day—only moments before dusk—just after the Malfoys' guests bade their adieus, Draco found her father in the library, replacing several ancient-looking books back in their rightful places on the shelves. She approached slowly, not wishing to break the silence until the right moment.

Silently, she padded forward, approaching from behind. Soon, she was close enough that she could have tugged at her father's robes, though she dare not. That sort of behavior was childish and had only been appropriate when she had been too short to see over the top of the dinner table. She was much older now—old enough to use her voice.

"Father," she piped softly.

"Yes, Draco," Lucius replied without turning—as though he had known she was lurking behind him the whole time.

"I need to ask you something."

This was when Lucius turned. He could not possibly know what she was going to say next. Nothing could have prepared him—though he may have known, deep down, that this moment was coming.

He gazed at his little dragon, still amused by how much more closely she resembled him than her mother. This, despite some feminine charm he could not yet mark with distinction.

"What is it?"

Draco swallowed, fumbling on her feet. As though they were not hers. No, as though they belonged to someone else.

"C-can we talk?"

"We're talking right—"

"I mean, on the couch."

Normally, Lucius would have been quick to correct his child for interrupting him so. But, this time, he was willing to forgive the mild misdemeanor. So, instead, he nodded, taking a seat on the nearby sofa.

Draco followed, sitting herself down at the opposite end—too frightened to face her father. Another misdemeanor to which Lucius said nothing. She knew she had to ask, though she could not possibly understand just how much her life was going to change as her next words slipped from her tongue.

"Well, Draco, what is it you wanted to ask?" Lucius prodded as gently as possible.

"Well, I'm not exactly sure," Draco replied. "I don't know, but-but . . ."

She finally turned her confused countenance to her father.

"I think there's something wrong with me."

Lucius' face fell.

"There is nothing wrong with you, Draco. Of that, I can assure you. Why would you think such a thing?"

Draco took a deep breath.

"I went swimming with Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott today."

"Swimming? But . . . you don't know how to swim."

Lucius' ears pounded. Swimming? He somehow suddenly knew where this was going. Therefore, as Draco continued to speak, he cast a silencing charm over the library.

"Nott was teaching me. But before we got in the water, he accidentally pulled down his underwear with his trousers and . . . And I saw something I don't think I should have seen. I don't understand. I think—"

"Draco, stop!" Lucius interrupted.

His heart pounded in his chest. He never wanted for this to happen. For his child to be so confused and to think that there was something wrong with her. As far as he could see, she was perfect. So intelligent. So talented. So beautiful! As a Malfoy, he had been reared to be partial to the idea of having a son. But he didn't want a son if it meant giving up the little piece of Heaven sitting nearby. He had always known the day would come when she would find out what she really was, but he had not wanted it to happen this way. He buried his face in his hands.

"You think you're missing something—don't you, Draco?"

"Yes, Father," she replied, now stifling tears that could have resembled any emotion—sadness, anger, frustration, confusion . . . They were all there behind her darkened grey eyes.

Lucius nodded to himself, knowing what then had to be done.

"Go to your bedroom, Draco. I will send your mother to you shortly. I think she would be better suited to speak with you regarding this matter."

"But, Father!" Draco protested, watching her father as he stood and stalked through the library.

"Please, Draco. Just go."

* * *

Draco sat alone in her dark room, legs hanging off the side of her bed as she intoned to one of her favourite tunes—patiently waiting.

 _"_ _One night I went walking out into the wood,  
And found I had wandered much more than I should . . ."_

She did not understand why she was supposed to talk to her mother. And yet, she did not understand why she felt so uncomfortable about it. Her mother had always been there to comfort her.

 _"_ _For I came to a meadow, a magical spot,  
When witches were waltzing, I never forgot . . ."_

In fact, she thought there was no one in the world quite so wonderful as her mother—fair and radiant with her understanding blue eyes and sweet smile. Yes, Draco admired her father above all else, but she rarely sought him in times of personal peril.

 _"_ _What a wild and weird and wonderful sight,  
When witches were waltzing on Halloween Night!"_

"Draco, your father told me—Why don't we put on some lights?"

Narcissa Malfoy had entered the room. Though Draco could not see her mother's face, she recognized the voice. Besides, it could be naught but her—a silhouette of motherly grace.

Soon, when Narcissa aimed her wand at Draco's bedside table lamp, the room was filled with radiant light. It complemented Narcissa's golden hair and beaming countenance as she sauntered nearer and eased herself down beside her daughter.

"Draco, Draco . . ." she began, pulling her daughter closer to her and kissing her on the top of the head. "If only I could tell you just how sorry I am for never telling you."

Draco closed her eyes, soothed by the rhythm of the familiar heartbeat at her ear.

"Draco," the soft voice sounded hesitant. "This is not going to be easy, but I need you to understand. Draco . . ."

Her voice broke as she swallowed, a slightly salty flavor tickling the back of her throat.

"There is a difference between girls and boys. And what you saw today, when Theodore . . . exposed himself . . . He has what every boy has."

Draco took this in much more quickly than Narcissa had expected. She pulled the shuddering child closer—onto her lap—and rocked back-and-forth, trying to calm her—to combat the storm raging inside her tiny body-but the tears would not stop. And Draco bawled. The poor child's head swam with dark chaos. Her chest felt like it was being pressed with great boulders. She wanted to hit her head against the wall. She wanted to squeeze something to kill it. She wanted to scream . . . Until, finally, she resigned herself to a fearful trembling, and her chest was bombarded with discomfort anew as hiccoughs gathered and sprang up through her throat.

"Draco, there is nothing wrong with you—"

"Then why don't I—HIC!—have what Theodore has? I am a boy—HIC!-Right, Mother?"

Narcissa combed her fingers through her daughter's gilded locks and smiled.

"No, Draco," she uttered softly, pressing another kiss into the back of the child's scalp. "You are a beautiful little girl."

Draco's shuddering started again as her mother clasped her hands around her shoulders and turned the grieving child to face her.

"I want you to listen to me, Draco," Narcissa fervently forced. "There is nothing wrong with you. You are not broken. You are amazing, and your father and I love you very much."

"Then why did you lie to me?" Draco wept with leaking eyes. "I-I-I don't want to be a-a . . . a _girl_!"

Narcissa sighed.

"The reason your father and I never told you is because all Malfoy heirs are supposed to be male. We don't want your grandfather to find out your true gender because he will send you away. And, Draco, even though you now know the truth, you cannot let your grandfather or anyone else know—not even your friends. You still have to pretend to be a boy, but that just means that you can continue to do all of the things you have always done."

Narcissa held her daughter tighter than she had in a very long time—felt the child's painful breaths aching in her own lungs, metered her heart to match the clacking of an unhinged railcar abandoned to roll into the depths of a dark canyon all on its own, and tasted the despair in the hot tears that rolled down her babe's soft cheeks.

Inside rose a despair of her own—one that knew only words could be offered when words were not nearly enough.

"We wish it did not have to be so, but your father and I do not want to lose you. We wouldn't know what to do without you in our lives."

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry it has taken me so long to update. I have been very under the weather as of late. I am really invested in this story, but it's tough to write-or do anything-when my head is killing me.

By the way, the little song Draco sings while sitting on the bed is an actual song. It's called "When Witches Were Waltzing". So, she is kinda singing a muggle song, but we can pretend that it was written by a witch or wizard and muggles just adapted it. :P I learned this song when I was in the third grade at a Catholic elementary school. It was later, at this same school, that I had a teacher who read us the third Harry Potter book. The third film was released the next summer. While I had already seen the first two films, I had not yet read any of the books. It was this teacher who inspired me to go back and read all of the books from the beginning. And, boy, I am so glad I did.


	6. Chapter V: Confusion

Chapter V: Confusion

Draco woke up from a deep sleep to find that her mother had left—possibly hours before—along with the setting sun. Its dim orange light had retired in the wake of the silver moon's nightly vigil. She couldn't remember having changed out of her day clothes. Hell, she couldn't even remember when she had fallen asleep. The last thing she remembered was sitting on her mother's lap. Shadow confronting glow. And a most heinous truth.

It couldn't be! She couldn't accept it. She wouldn't! Girls were weak and stupid. Draco was not weak or stupid. She had decided that long ago. She was meant to be a leader—someone to whom others could look up. She would be the greatest in anything she did. A powerful wizard. And she was certain that she could not be any of those things unless she grew up to be a man like her father. He knew everything. He was in charge and could make others do whatever he wished. He was powerful—better at magic than anyone she knew. In fact, he was better at everything than everyone except . . . except . . . her mother.

But wait, Mother was a girl . . . She wasn't weak. And she definitely wasn't stupid. Her aura was strong—stronger than any magic. Draco could not deny her importance. And she couldn't explain what it was she liked best about her mother. She simply admired her. Perhaps not all girls were quite so bad . . .

The idea only provided momentary comfort before she was bombarded with more out-of-control thoughts.

Draco had been told that she shouldn't act any different from before. She could continue doing all that she had always done, and she was grateful for that. Besides, even witches could fly and aspire to play Quidditch. There was no issue there. It was the more troubling thoughts that she had repressed for so long. Thoughts regarding penchants for things she had never understood until now.

She had previously suffered from fleeting desires to wear a beautiful gown like one of her mother's. Paint her nails. Spray on fragrance. Make a headpiece out of flowers. She blushed now as she had blushed then, but she could not suppress it all as she once had. She could no longer wave away such desires as dying leaves floating into a different season, only to forget about them later. She now understood why such ideas had crossed her mind, though she also knew she could not do such things. She should have been ashamed of herself for even considering them . . . But she was a girl now. Shouldn't she have wanted those things? But she was supposed to act like a boy. Such behaviors were not acceptable.

In her confusion, her thoughts slipped to something completely taboo. For whatever reason, she saw an image of herself with long hair and a pink polka-dot dress. She was sitting under the gazebo when Theodore Nott appeared wearing a tuxedo, a white daisy in his hand. With a smile, he handed it to Draco, who eagerly accepted. The next thing she knew, Nott was leaning in to plant a kiss on her cheek, and . . .

NO!

Her mind's cry of refusal was nearly audible. Theodore was her best friend. And they were both—Wait, no they weren't.

Eventually, Draco's mind wandered away from the painful "could bes" and to the agonizing "ares".

Her mother had told her that she would be sent away if her grandfather ever found out that she wasn't really male. And yet, she had tried to assure her that nothing was wrong with her. How could she possibly be expected to believe that? If she really were "just fine", wouldn't her grandfather accept her for who she was, regardless of her gender? He had always been kind to her before—a venerable guide. Why would he suddenly turn on her? She hadn't changed—not really. She was still the same as she had always been—this despite her not always being aware of what she was. Couldn't the same be true with her grandfather? Her head ached with the need to tell him everything. To find out if he really did love her. It was in her hands. She would have to tell him . . . But she knew she couldn't.

She could risk it all and have everything turn out all right, free to do anything she wanted and surrounded by honest love. She could also end up losing her parents—the only two people who truly mattered. Likewise, she would have to face the pain of being betrayed by someone she loved and whom she had thought loved her back. The way she saw it, the only way to ensure that nothing would be lost was to continue living a lie. The lie of being enough.

* * *

At the end of the hall, Narcissa lie awake, staring at the ceiling, her mind a restless cacophony of words, sounds, images. Unsurprisingly, it all sprang from what had taken place earlier that evening.

Following their conversation, Narcissa had suggested that Draco take a bath to cool down and to become acquainted with the truth. Ten minutes later, she had returned to check on her child, only to find everything in shambles—both the bedroom and bathroom. Windows busted, water rushing over the marble floor, goose down spilling out of silk cushions like guts. Standing at the centre of it all was Draco—her hair a wild and matted mess, her eyes pale and cold—devoid of all the innocence that would befit her diminutive form. She looked like a feral child, and when Narcissa took her into her arms, there was no response. Nothing. All she could sense was a dark cloud surrounding her precious little one. She would do all she could to revive the warmth.

Carefully, Narcissa clothed Draco in a clean set of night clothes and coaxed her to nurse on a sleeping draught as she tempered in her arms. When Draco had finally nodded off, she laid her wearied body down and tucked her snugly within her covers. As the child snoozed, she made haste to repair the room and clear it of all excess debris. Finally, she crowned her little dragon with a kiss, as well as a silent prayer for peace, and ordered Dobby to keep vigil over her that night, lest there be any more chaos.

It wasn't fair! This pain that had been festering for so terribly long.

Narcissa had always dreamed of having a little girl. In fact, if there was one thing over which she and her two sisters had ever bonded, it had occurred during their childhood when they spent hours playing with and "babysitting" one another's dolls. Those dolls wore pink and never blue. As they had grown older and abandoned their toys for the latest tabloids and bridal magazines, they babbled on and on about one day marrying wealthy men, having extravagant weddings, and giving birth on the same day, only to find out that they had all been carrying girls.

The day she found that she would be giving Lucius a child was her life's greatest blessing. She had busied herself preparing the nursery and window-shopping for infant apparel. She did not yet know if she would have a girl or boy, but she had assured herself that she would soon have a little one with whom she could pick flowers and have tea parties—a tiny princess to share in her royal favour. Truth be told, Narcissa would not have been disappointed to find that she had been bearing a son, for she would have made haste to spoil her little prince, as well. The walls of her personal castle only began to crumble when she learned that she had a daughter, but could never lavish her with whimsical trinkets, dress her in airy florals, or bask in the light of her feminine wiles.

It had hurt like Hell to hear Draco say that she did not want to be a girl, but Narcissa knew there was no point in her feeling any other way. The only hope Narcissa had was for Abraxas' impending passing. But that was a terrible thing to wish for! His presence may have been the root of all her problems, but he was still family. And he did love Draco very much. Perhaps there was a chance that he wouldn't go through with—No. It was not worth the risk—the loss of the poor little treasure trapped at the centre of everything.


	7. Chapter VI: The Wand Chooses the Wizard

Chapter VI: The Wand Chooses the Wizard

"Are you certain that Hogwarts is the best choice for Draco's education?" Abraxas Malfoy pressed. "I mean, at Durmstangs—"

"At Durmstangs, there will be no 'Boy Who Lived', Father," Lucius interrupted. In a slightly lower tone he explained, "And we all know how advantageous it would be for our cause if Draco were to somehow . . . curry favour with the young Mister Potter."

Abraxas eyed his son thoughtfully, though not entirely convinced.

"Very well, then," he sighed. "So, where to first?"

The family was sauntering down the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, a booming centre of magical commerce. The late summer breeze sent a warning chill to the great crowds of wandering pedestrians—foretelling of autumn's coming wake. Draco strolled proudly, sporting the handsome new robes she had received from her mother on her eleventh birthday. She had received a great many other gifts, but the wand case was what had brought her the greatest joy.

Ever since that fifth day of June, she had pulled the solid gold case from her dresser each day, just to run her fingers over the scales and alexandrite eyes of the dragon who had been engraved in the box's surface. She admired her initials, around which the fierce beast's tail was coiled—a reminder of the magic running through her veins. She had consciously decided not to open it, but her curiosity often got the better of her. Inside, the box was lined with the finest black silk money could buy but no wand. Draco did not understand why she would put herself through such disappointment, time and time again. Perhaps the remaining dregs of the child within her believed that if she wished hard enough, her wand would suddenly materialize in the shelter that was meant for it.

This was the day when everything would change. This was the day that Draco would never again have to worry about opening her wand case to find it empty. This was the day when she would take her first steps towards becoming a full-fledged witch.

Draco shuddered in surprise when her father clapped a firm hand over her shoulder.

"I think Draco needs to be fitted for school robes before anything," he remarked. "A young wizard is nothing without a set of good robes."

* * *

Soon, Draco was rushed through the doorway of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, at which point a generous sack of Galleons was shoved into her unprepared hands.

"Your grandfather and I are going to be next door," Lucius announced as Draco pocketed the purse.

"And I will be at Ollivanders," Narcissa added. "Come and meet me whenever you are finished here."

"Yes, Ma'am," Draco replied as she received a kiss from her mother. "And then can we look at racing brooms?"

Draco's parents stared at each other as Lucius made to reach for the door. Narcissa turned to her daughter with a rather apologetic expression.

"But, Draco, you know that first years are not allowed their own brooms."

"But Father said that they'd be mad not to choose me for Quidditch!"

"And I meant that, Draco," Lucius broke in. "But not until next—"

"Bullocks!" Abraxas interrupted. "That rule is completely unfounded! Besides, there is surely no harm in letting the boy _look_ at some brooms."

Draco smiled at her grandfather, who winked back in turn.

"Very well, then," Lucius agreed, turning to leave the shop. "But we should get all of your required school things before looking at anything else—including broomsticks."

"Yes, Sir," Draco nodded.

She turned around and knew her family had gone at the tinkle of the bell behind her.

Draco looked around. She had never seen quite so many fabrics all in one place—and she had never wanted for clothing . . . or, at least, never _needed_ to. Before one rack, there was a small table topped with a tea kettle and someone's empty cup and spoon, but no one too be seen. Not one sound, save the ticking of the tiny wall clock on the left wall. Draco desperately wanted to more closely examine the hanging fabrics, but that was when-

"Needing your Hogwarts robes, Dear?"

Draco leapt, startled, before turning to her right, where she was met with a beaming face that hardly topped the counter.

"Don't sneak up on me like that!" Draco snapped reflexively.

"I apologize, Dearie. I did not mean to frighten you. Please follow me."

The tiny witch, smile unwavering beneath her mauve hat, despite Draco's outburst, rounded the counter and beckoned Draco to follow her to another room at the right-hand side of the store, where she was greeted by a second witch—this one much taller and thinner with silver-grey hair pulled back in a strategically-placed bun. This witch also seemed to wear a permanent smile.

"Come step on the stool, Dearie," she invited, indicating a footstool that stood before a long mirror in the corner.

Before Draco could raise her arms, a long black robe was being pulled over her head. Then the two witches went to work pinning up the robe to the right length. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds before the bell at the front of the store jingled once more.

"Gretchen, keep taking care of this young man," Madam Malkin said, pausing in her pinning. "I'm sure we have another student here."

The stout little witch in mauve disappeared back through the doorway as the second witch continued pinning.

"Not as much pinning as I thought," Gretchen remarked as she continued her work. "You must be rather tall for a boy your age."

"Thank you," Draco replied.

There may have been a time in her life when the compliment would have actually phased her, but that time had passed long ago. Then again, if she was taller than most boys, it would make looking the part that much easier.

Madam Malkin re-entered the room with a young boy around Draco's age in tow. Draco was intrigued immediately upon sight. Could it have been the unkempt black hair swept carelessly over his forehead? Maybe it was the taped-up glasses obscuring two bright orbs of beryl. Or, perhaps, it was the strange, baggy clothing that was haphazardly draped over the boy's malnourished frame. One thing was for certain: Draco had never before seen a character quite like this one.

"Hello," she dared, hoping to engage with the current object of her interest. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," the boy replied, and Draco was intrigued even more by the idea that such an ordinary voice could come out of such an odd-looking creature.

"My father's next door buying my books and Mother's up the street looking at wands," she continued. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own." Complete honesty. "I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow." She knew that last part was unlikely, but fantasizing aloud never hurt.

She waited for the boy to respond. Though Draco did enjoy talking about herself, she genuinely did want to find out more about this specimen. Besides just his looks, there was something mysterious about him. She could sense it. Like he was hiding something. Draco couldn't stand the idea that some important secret was being kept from her. The only problem was, she didn't know what this boy was hiding, if he was hiding anything at all. Not knowing what to ask to find out, she settled for her favourite subject.

"Have _you_ got your own broom?" she asked.

"No."

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No."

" _I_ do—Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree."

Fantasizing was fun, but boasting didn't hurt either.

Draco waited a few moments more, but to no avail. She wondered what family he was from—if he was pureblood or not. That, of course, would determine if she could even consider a friendship with him when they did get to Hogwarts. Then, she remembered how her grandfather had told her about the houses and how many families tended to be sorted into the same house over many generations. The greatest house, of course, was Slytherin because most members of that house were purebloods—including her own parents, cousins, grandparents . . .

"Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"No."

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all of our family have been—imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Mmm."

Draco searched her mind for another question when she saw something else that piqued her interest.

"I say, look at that man!"

Draco's attention had been stolen, once again. This time, by an enormous man with shaggy hair, an old worn coat, and two ice creams melting into his gargantuan mitts.

"That's Hagrid," the boy replied, as though he personally knew the giant. "He works at Hogwarts."

 _Hagrid, Hagrid, Hagrid_ . . . Draco could have sworn that she knew the name . . _. Oh!_ She remembered the name coming up in a conversation between her parents at dinner. She just never imagined the name belonging to such a large face.

"Oh. I've heard of him. He's sort of a servant, isn't he?"

"He's the gamekeeper," the boy explained.

"Yes, exactly. I heard he's a sort of _savage—_ lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed," Draco chuckled at the thought of the filthy giant tugging through his hair as he panicked about a burning mattress, even despite the boy not laughing with her.

"I think he's brilliant," the boy remarked coldly.

" _Do_ you?" she sneered, wondering how anyone could be friends with such an obviously unnatural person. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

Her questions had become far more direct and to-the-point.

"They're dead," the boy said, sounding rather affronted.

"Oh, sorry," Draco returned, genuinely not knowing what else to say. "But they were _our_ kind, weren't they?"

"They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean."

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families."

Most of this was the same old spiel she had heard her parents and grandfather repeat, time and time again. She did not understand it all herself, but she knew they were right, and she dare not associate with anyone who did not agree.

"What's your surname, anyway?"

The boy opened his mouth to reply, but Draco never learned the answer, as Madam Malkin interrupted, "That's you done, My Dear."

"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," she called as the boy left the shop.

She saw him one last time as he accepted an ice cream cone from the giant oaf standing outside the window.

"That's you done, as well, My Dear," Gertrude announced, helping Draco out of the robe.

* * *

Draco met her mother at Ollivanders, just as she had asked. By the time she got there, Mr. Ollivander had already chosen some wands for her to try out. Greedily, Draco reached for the box at the top of the pile.

"Ow!" Draco whined when Mr. Olivander smacked her hand away.

"Do not lay a hand on my child!" Narcissa intervened, swiftly approaching the counter with her own wand pointed, ready for the kill.

Mr. Ollivander did not seem frightened in the least—as though he regularly received threats from parents—and instead replied, "I'm terribly sorry, Mrs. Malfoy, but I do need to take young Draco's measurements before he tries any wands. You see, these things take great care."

Narcissa backed off slowly as Mr. Ollivander—or, his tape measure rather-measured Draco's forearm, upper arm, whole arm, head circumference, whole height, and height from shoulder to floor.

"Very interesting," Draco could hear the man muttering as he carefully considered the pile of wands heaped up on top of his counter. "Aha! Let's try this one first."

Draco beamed as she cradled the wand between both hands.

"Go ahead and wave it with your wand hand," Mr. Olivander instructed as Draco gripped it in her right fist and gave it a light flick. "This one is twelve inches. Elm and dragon heartstring. Rigid"

Draco was about to give it a wave when it was soon replaced with another.

"Ten inches. Cypress and dragon heartstring. Nice and supple."

And another.

"Ten inches. Yew and phoenix feather. Springy."

And another.

"Fourteen inches. Chestnut and dragon heartstring. Rigid flexibility."

Still. Nothing.

"Perhaps we should be going," Narcissa snorted. "That is, if there is no wand—"

"Be patient, Mrs. Malfoy," Ollivander interrupted. "We will find your son the wand he needs. This is one of the most important moments in his life, and it will take time. I assure you, the wait is worth it."

Mr. Ollivander eyed Draco curiously. It was as though he could see straight through her. But, for whatever reason, she found herself unbothered by it.

The next wand Draco tried was not taken from the pre-selected bunch on the counter. Instead, this one was carefully pulled and delivered from one of the many shelves of cased wands awaiting their masters as they writhed in forced slumber.

"Based on what your mother has told me about you, as well as what I know about your family," Ollivander confided to no one but Draco as he roved his gaze between her and the handsome wand in the case he now offered, "I would have never, in a million years, considered this one. . . But I have this feeling . . . a strong conviction, rather . . . that this is the one for you."

Draco nodded, briefly meeting the old man's pale blue eyes as she carefully removed the wand from its case. She had hardly lifted it when she felt a deep, penetrating warmth travel up her arm and into her chest . . . and then to every other part of her body. And she could not help but smile—even before she realized how the small spot of the room in which she stood was now flooded with light.

"Ten inches. Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Reasonably pliant," Mr. Ollivander informed with a broad grin.

* * *

" _Hawthorn_?" Lucius asked his wife, eying his daughter with obvious confusion when he and his father met Narcissa and Draco outside the wand shop. "Are you certain?"

"Yes, Lucius. What is the matter?" Narcissa returned.

Lucius shook his head as though trying to scare away a fly.

"Nothing. I just would have never—"

"Do I need to go back in there and give that old crackpot a talking to?" Abraxas broke in. "Surely there must be some sort of mistake."

"What's the mistake, Grandfather?" Draco asked, more confused than anyone.

He clapped her on the shoulder.

"Draco, what do you say? Why don't we go back in there and get you a nice cypress or elm wand?"

"But I already have my wand."

Abraxas threw Draco a disdainful sideways glance. Draco stared straight at him, biting her lip. It was all she could do to keep her mouth from falling open. This was the first time in her life she had ever been even mildly contrary to her grandfather. And she was just as surprised as anyone.

"Draco, that wand will simply not do."

"It will have to," she spat.

Her heart thudded against her chest. She didn't know what she was saying or why. It was as though she had no control over her words—like she had been possessed. What's more, she meant them. And this frightened her more than anything.

"Don't—argue—with—me!" Abraxas huffed, leaning in closer to his grandchild with every word before finally attempting to snatch Draco's wand box from her clutches.

She skidded out of the way, pressing the box as tightly to her chest as possible.

"Give me that wand, Boy!"

"NO!"

She managed to protect her new treasure once more, but tumbled to the ground in the process, grazing her chin on the sidewalk.

She touched the place she had been injured and, as she stood up, she was dumbfounded by the trickle of blood on her fingertips.

"Draco, I-I'm— "Abraxas stuttered, utterly horrified by what he had caused.

Before he had the chance to explain himself, Draco bolted from the scene, as far away from her family as her two legs could carry her.

* * *

Draco fumed, frustrated, at a loss for what to do. She had just fled from her family—something unthinkable!

As she paced, she caught sight of herself in a darkened store window. For the first time in her life, she paused to really study herself—tall, thin, and pale with her platinum blonde locks slicked precisely back. It was so strange. In her entire short life, she had never really considered how positively homely—how hopelessly hideous—she looked.

She growled, kicking the wall just below the window.

Having bruised her foot, she now slumped to the ground, holding her throbbing head in her hands and allowing her wand case to drop into her lap.

"My, what a pretty young witch!"

Draco heard the words, but not really. They did not pertain to her. But then, she heard the same voice speak again—this time closer. High and weathered.

"Well, hello there, Dearie!"

Draco looked up, spooked. The face of her apprehender matched her voice perfectly—grey and wrinkled.

Draco did not reply. She only studied the woman from head to toe. She was hunch-backed with unkempt grey hair sticking out from beneath a tattered old hat like straw. Her dress was black and tattered with patches of dark grey where the fabric had worn over the years. Over either shoulder, the witch carried an over-stuffed satchel. One must have been full of herbs, as there were wiry branches sticking out from the holes in the sides of the bag. The other appeared to be full of books, as pointed bulges poked out at the side.

"I saw you looking at your reflection in the window, young one. And I think your problem lies within yourself."

"I don't have a problem!" Draco spat.

"Oh, I think you do," the witch continued, not at all discouraged. "I can tell that you are about to go through some difficult times, Young Lady—"

"I'm not a young lady! I'm a boy!"

"You can't fool me. I've traveled the world—seen just about all there is to see."

Draco furrowed her brow. She didn't like this woman. She didn't have to know her name to know she was bad news.

"What do you want?"

The woman chuckled.

"I want to help you, but the help I offer cannot be bought. I have plenty of medicines," she patted the satchel containing the herbs, "but your problem is not one that can be cured by such common means."

Draco frowned.

"What kind of problem do you think I have?"

The woman smiled, and her watery eyes glinted so in the sun they appeared as though they might have melted and leaked into the cracks between the dusty cobbles.

"I think your problem lies deep within yourself," she replied in the same tone someone may have used when giving instructions for baking a cake. "You deny your feelings, and no lie that anyone has told you will ever match the ones you tell yourself."

"What do you mean, I tell myself lies? How is that even possible?"

"Oh, but it is!" the woman assured. "And if you continue to do so, I'm afraid the consequences will be dire. You may never know who you really are."

Draco narrowed her eyes at the woman. She could feel her face glowing hot pink.

"YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT, YOU OLD BAG! I ALREADY KNOW WHO I AM! YOU'RE THE ONE WHO'S CRAZY AND DOESN'T KNOW ANYTHING!"

Draco stood up, her shoulders pushed straight back. She appeared like a rage-filled calf ready to charge for the first time.

"NOW GET LOST AND LEAVE ME ALONE!" she stamped.

The old woman stood, still as stone as Draco shouted at her. She continued to smile as she rifled through her bag of herbs, humming an old tune as she produced a sprig and presented it to Draco, who dumbfoundedly accepted it as the pink in her cheeks dwindled to their typical palour.

"Safe travels, Little One. Here's rosemary . . . for your remembrance."

Draco stared at the green sprig before giving it a sniff when she was sure the woman had gone. She decided that it actually smelled quite wonderful and, therefore, instead of tossing it on the ground, pocketed it.

 **AN: Sorry it has taken so long to update. I have finished the first draft of the next chapter, but am not quite satisfied with it yet, so just be patient with me.**

 **I know you will notice that a lot of the dialogue is the same as what you will find in the novels. I could come up with my own dialogue, (and will, when needed) but wish to keep Harry's story as close to the original as possible. Draco's, of course, will be quite different. This is a story I am writing for others to enjoy, but I am also using my writing as a means for character study. Therefore, I give all rights to J.K. Rowling, the creator of this fantastic universe.**

 **Announcement! If I decide to keep some of the later content that I have already written, this story will soon be re-rated M. I will announce this, once again, at the end of the chapter prior to the first one including M-rated material. If you only read T and under, do not worry. You will be safe for quite a while now. I just thought this would be a good spot to give a fair warning-before anyone who opposes gets too attached to this story.**

 **Than, you for reading, and I hope you continue to enjoy this labour of love.**


	8. Chapter VII: Aboard the Hogwarts Express

Chapter VII: On Board the Hogwarts Express

That day in Diagon Alley remained clear in Draco's mind through the final month of summer. The old witch's words remained meaningless but meaningful enough to replay and ponder, over and over, over and over again.

Her dreams—they had been affected as well. Though she did not allow for them to mar her happiness any more than the old witch's blatherings, they had certainly become haunted by the face of the boy from the robe shop.

She saw him not as one is normally seen in a dream—retaining some of their familiar features while blurred and darkened around the edges—but as one is seen in-person on the street—clear and emanating waves of energy. He never did anything, save stand before her and repeat, "They're dead—my parents. They're dead."

No emotion.

No other movements.

Just words.

As plain as someone saying the sky is blue.

And the dreams came every night, bothering poor Draco's sense of calm, until one morning . . .

Draco nearly spat her tea across the table when she turned to her father and spotted a familiar face on the front cover of the paper he was reading.

"Wh-Wh-Who is that?" she managed to stutter over the beat of shock playing in her chest.

Lucius peeked his pointed face back over the front page.

"This boy?" he questioned, pointing directly at the fidgeting photo of the very boy she had encountered in Madame Malkin's.

Draco nodded.

Lucius smirked, turning back to the page he had previously been reading.

"That is Harry Potter."

* * *

"I'm telling you, Malfoy, he's in one of the compartments towards the front of the train! He looks just like his picture."

Draco shot a doubtful frown at Theodore Nott.

"But why would he be here? He's been living with the muggles all these years . . . There's no place for him here in the wizarding world. He simply won't fit in."

Draco knew the contrary to be true. She had been informed by her father, a governor of Hogwarts, who knew for a fact that Harry Potter would be beginning his magical education on the very same day as she.

Of course, she had met a boy who very closely resembled the one depicted in the newspaper. But she refused to believe it was the same boy, and she had spent countless hours examining the photo, trying to find any discrepancies between the visage of the boy haunting her dreams and the face of the boy beneath the headline. She had yet to tell anyone of her meeting with the small, bespectacled boy in the shop, and she was not so sure that she could be friends with him. However, if that boy really did turn out to be Harry Potter, she was under her father's orders to try.

"If you're so certain it isn't him, why don't you go and see for yourself? You have the picture."

Nott tossed his copy of the _Daily Prophet_ across the small compartment, where it landed on Draco's lap. Draco simply blinked at it.

"I'm hungry," Crabbe complained. "When's the trolley witch coming back?"

"Crabbe, you fat lard!" Nott chastised. "She was just here. I can't believe you and Goyle already ate what she brought."

Draco stared at the familiar photo once more. That face. The glasses. The oversized clothing. There was no doubt about it . . .

"Malfoy, why don't you take these two lunkheads to get more food?"

Draco scowled over the top of the paper.

"You can't tell me what to do, Nott!" she retorted. "I have—"

"Relax, Malfoy," Nott interrupted. "This will give you a chance to find out the truth. If Potter really is on this train, you can invite him to join us. If he isn't, well, then whatever!"

* * *

The first compartment Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle disturbed was full of chattering girls. One of the girls appeared to be swooning over photos of professional quidditch players while another girl ran a brush through her friend's hair. Yet another one tended to a tiny black kitten curled up on her lap. The girl with the magazine, a pigtailed blonde, was the first to notice the trio standing there in the doorway.

"Can I _help_ you?" the girl huffed impatiently.

That's when the others lifted their heads to join the blonde in scowling at the intruders.

Draco struggled not to meet their eyes. In those few seconds, she had already decided that she did not like them, their girlish banter, or their long locks adorned with barrettes and headbands. And their current disposition was only more of a reason to resent them.

"No, I don't think so," Draco replied.

And, before she realized what she had muttered, "That would require brains," escaped her lips.

She turned to leave, Crabbe and Goyle close in-tow, when something smacked her in the back of the head. She cocked her gaze to see a bottle of nail polish rolling under one of the seats.

"You want to repeat that?" the blonde girl spat, seriously poising her wand at Draco's chest.

Draco was staring down at the object, wondering if the girl could even do anything to her, when a voice piped up from the corner.

"Let them leave."

The blonde turned to eye her friend, a brunette with a close-cropped haircut. What ensued must have been a brief argument, but Draco didn't stick around to find out.

Instead, she yanked Crabbe and Goyle along with her as she slammed the compartment door behind them.

* * *

After a few more attempts, a trio of older boys poking at what appeared to be a large spider in a box informed Draco that the alleged Harry Potter was in compartment 4B.

"Are we ever going to get more food?" Crabbe pressed as Draco pulled open the final compartment door.

Draco didn't reply.

In fact, she was afraid to breathe, for she feared that if she did she may just exhale fire.

There was no denying it. Sitting there, before her, in the light of the sun breaking through the window, was the green-eyed waif from Madam Malkin's.

How could he? How could he have failed to tell her something so very important? In all her eleven years, Draco had never dared to fathom such deceit.

With clenched fists, she managed to force out, "Is it true?"

The green eyes just faintly recognized her.

"They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, is it?"

"Yes," the green-eyed boy replied.

At his side there sat a ginger-haired, freckle-faced boy that Draco immediately pinned as one of the Weasely clan her father had warned her about that very morning. Of all the nerve! Not only had the world's most famous boy wizard failed to properly introduce himself, but he dared to associate with such lowly filth as a muggle-loving Weasely, who may as well not even be pureblood! Draco was far beyond disappointed at this point, but the difficult task of befriending Potter . . . She had to maintain her calm. Perhaps if she were to give him the benefit of the doubt. Having been raised in the muggle world and all—perhaps he just needed someone to guide him in the right direction. To teach him how a pureblood should act. Maybe she could be that person.

Draco frantically searched her mind for something friendlier to address as she eyed the compartment. That's when she remembered Crabbe and Goyle at her side.

"Oh, this is Crabbe, and this is Goyle," she indicated, trying to maintain her façade of calm. "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

The red-haired boy made the first sound she had heard him make since she had entered the compartment, and it sounded suspiciously like a chuckle.

She scrunched her face at him, an attempt to abate the heat rising in her cheeks.

But, that very same moment, the frustration she had been holding in finally came to a head.

"Think my name's funny, do you?" she spat. "No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

She continued, turning back to her reason for being there, "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

She held out her hand, awaiting the warmth of a handshake . . . But, years later, looking back on this day, this moment in time, she would swear that she already knew the outcome.

And her sin was an attempt to thwart fate.

"I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," Harry replied without so much as touching her hand.

Humiliated and frustrated, and with three witnesses to the fiasco, Draco did not have the heart to just turn and run.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," she breathed, feeling as though she may shatter into pieces if she were not careful. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it'll rub off on you."

Both Harry and the redhead shot up from their seats.

"Say that again," the ginger boy flared.

As the boy was slightly taller than her, Draco would have normally been unable to handle the threat. But Crabbe and Goyle tightened in at her sides, and she suddenly felt safe.

"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" she taunted, placing as much emphasis on "us" as possible.

"Unless you get out now."

Once more, she caught a glimpse of those green eyes—the ones glowing at her from behind a pair of round-lensed glasses. Though she knew, right then and there, that those eyes had become her enemies, she could not help but feel some sort of foreign sense of solace in their presence.

Despite this, Draco was insistent upon having the last word and, thus, hearing Goyle's (or, perhaps, it was Crabbe's) stomach whine, she decided upon her next move.

"But we don't feel like leaving, do we, boys? We've eaten all our food, and you still seem to have some."

She didn't have to explain further. Momentarily, her cronies were reaching for their fill of sweets. But they never made off with any, as Goyle wailed in pain before touching so much as a single Chocolate Frog. When Goyle turned, Draco and Crabbe could clearly see a rather large rat hanging off of Goyle's knuckle. Everyone else in the compartment ducked out of the way as Goyle swung the stubborn creature about, round-and-round, until it finally lost its grip and flew through the air to slam, head-first, into the window.

"Father told me those Weasleys were filthy!" Draco muttered as she, Crabbe, and Goyle fled from the compartment.

She could not stand another single moment of embarrassment—especially since she had just failed her father for the first time in her life.


End file.
